Chapter 9: The Broker and the Plan
"The broker Sloan contacted," Paul said, "is named Dennis Farwell.
He works out of a small office on the east side of town.
I had my investigator pull his license history this morning." A pause.
"He has two prior complaints filed against him with the state real estate board.
Both involve transactions where a family property was leveraged without the full knowledge of all owners.
Neither complaint resulted in formal discipline, but the pattern is there."
I sat down at my desk.
"She found someone who had done this before."
"It appears so.
Which suggests she didn't stumble into this plan — she researched it.
She found a method, found someone willing to facilitate it, and then worked backward to put the pieces in place." He paused.
"The account withdrawals were operating capital.
The deed was the main event.
The house in the neighborhood she wanted lists at six hundred and forty thousand dollars.
Your property, if sold, would net somewhere between three hundred and three hundred and twenty thousand after costs.
With Harrison as co-owner, she could force a partition sale if you refused to sell voluntarily."
"She was going to make me sell my home."
"Or buy out Harrison's share at a price she set.
Either way, she extracted the money from you." A pause.
"Ruth, I want to be honest with you.
The deed filing is the more serious matter legally.
The account withdrawals are recoverable and relatively straightforward.
The deed — that's fraud on a property record.
That's a felony in this state."
I thought about Sloan at my birthday party.
The single raised eyebrow.
The word oops.
The way she had stood over the wreckage of Brenda's cake without a flicker of remorse.
She had already been planning it then.
She had been planning it for months.
The birthday, the cake, the humiliation — none of it had been impulsive.
She had simply stopped caring whether I noticed.
Because by then, she thought she had already won.
"File everything," I said.
"The civil recovery and the deed challenge, yes.
On the criminal referral—"
"File that too."
A pause.
"You're certain?"
"She planned this from the beginning.
She found a broker with a history of doing this to families.
She used my son." I stopped.
"She used my grief.
Daniel had been gone for two months when Harrison first asked to be added to that account.
Two months." My voice stayed steady.
I made sure of it.
"Yes.
I'm certain."
"All right.
I'll have the referral prepared by end of day." Another pause, quieter.
"For what it's worth — you're handling this with a great deal of clarity."
"I had a good teacher," I said.
"He taught me that you handle the thing in front of you.
You don't look away from it."
I hung up and sat for a moment in Daniel's old study — my office now, with my locks on the door and my files in the cabinet.
His reading chair was still in the corner.
I had not been able to move it.
"I'm handling it," I told the chair.
Upstairs, Harrison was quiet.
Outside, the street was ordinary — a neighbor walking a dog, a delivery truck making its rounds, the world continuing at its normal pace entirely indifferent to the fact that my life had just changed shape again.
My phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*Ms.
Bennett.
This is Karen Aldiss from Whitmore and Crane.
Sloan Bennett has asked me to inform you that she is prepared to discuss a private settlement.
She believes a conversation between the two of you, without attorneys present, could resolve this matter quickly and quietly for everyone involved.*
I read it twice.
Then I forwarded it to Paul with a single line: *She's trying to get to me directly.*
His reply came back in four minutes: *Do not respond.
Do not meet with her.
This is very good news for us.*
I set the phone face-down on the desk.
May you like
She thought I was still the woman who would stay quiet and clean up the mess.
She had miscalculated that, too.
